On the road in Pennsylvania Dutch country
The hand-painted sign along the side of the road caught my eye. Homemade baked goods, root beer, jam. Behind it was large gray barn with a small farm stand in front. I peered down the gravel drive and saw a man with a beard and a hat driving a horse-drawn buggy.
I’m in Bird-in-Hand, a dot on the map along Route 30 in Pennsylvania Dutch country, late in the morning on a meandering drive along farm roads that hum with grooves carved by the metal buggy wheels, looking for signs of a good reason to stop. Here was everything I needed.
I pulled into the driveway barn just short of a group of women in plain dresses and sheer white bonnets. Some were pre-teens holding baby siblings on their hips. The older girls were busy cooking, gathered around a giant steel cauldron billowing steam. I approached hoping they were making apple fritters.
“We’re making potato chips for my daughter’s wedding,” said the eldest with pride as she stirred the chips in hot oil and her daughter smiled bashfully.
“Congratulations! When is the wedding?” I asked.
“November 23,” she said. “Would you like to try?” said the bride-to-be, holding out a stainless steel bowl and pulling back a paper towel to reveal paper thin wafers of fried potatoes. I was surprised to find they were dusted with sour cream and onion powder. They were, of course delicious. I wondered what other delights would be served at the wedding.
A trio of miniature dogs were jumping up on my legs and planting muddy footprints on my knees. The man with the horse and buggy passed by and pulled out on the road, horse hooves clopping and brass rings on the reins jangling.
I ask for a bottle of homemade root beer and select a whoopie pie wrapped in Saran wrap, basically a vanilla cream icing sandwich with a cakey chocolate bun, plus gingery molasses cookies smushed with a thumb before baking and crackling with sugar crystals, and a couple of jars of blueberry rhubarb jam. I wish blessings for the wedding and climb back into my car.
REAR WINDOW
When I stepped up into the metal buggy, I reckoned (yes, you can use old words like this and not seem strange here in Pennsylvania Dutch Country) the carriage could be either a year old or 100 years old, so timeless it seemed. It was built like I imagined a Model T Ford—thin, flat black metal shaped into a tight, hard box.
In the front seat were the men wearing brimmed hats that worked equal time for sun in the fields and road glare. In the back were the women wearing modest bonnets in calico and black, their bodies tucked into a dark box with no emergency door or hatchback, rectangular windows the size of mail slots on either side offering a narrow view of the passing fields. There was room for four, and not a body more.
John snapped the reins and the shiny black steed shook his head once, wiggled his ears, and began a slow trot, his iron-shod hooves clip clopping on the two-lane road. The bench seats, upholstered in a surprising and plush burst of blue, squeaked and creaked as the carriage swayed. The spoked wooden wheels rolled stiffly.
The windscreen was up. It was a beautiful day; no need to keep out the rain. There was no steering wheel. No radio. No blue tooth. Just a couple of benches in a tightly fitting box tethered to a strong horse with a few leather straps.
With nothing more than we needed—a couple of shiny side view mirrors and orange reflectors the only sign of the modern world—we rolled down the lane.
We were in no hurry. We were already out of time.
There’s a rhythm to the country roads. Straight road. Fields. Sharp bend. Farm. Cows. Straight road. Fields. Sharp bend. Farm. Cows. This is one of the oldest Amish and Mennonite settlements where many still live a “plain” lifestyle—no television, radio, computer, internet—primarily farming families with strong bonds of faith and community. There are more than 5,000 farms here, growing everything from grains and vegetables and flowers to milk and eggs and livestock. Hand lettered signs flash by for Cabbage. Bunnies. Garlic. Broccoli.
I round a bend and come up on a farm just as a team of draft horses peek around the corner of a barn. I stop in the road (there’s no one for several sharp bends) as the animals emerge pulling a large metal plow with long red teeth that will tear the corn from its stalks. A man sits on top next to a kind of steam engine. He has a tall black hat and a beard. He snaps the black leather reins and the horses shake their heads and blonde manes like rock stars and flex their tawny flanks to pull the plow down the driveway and into the road in front of me.
As they pass, my eyes are wide and my mouth is probably open as I take in the full measure of these beasts. They are gigantic. They stand nearly as tall as a school bus, their wide hooves the size of catcher’s mitts. Their eyes roll and they exhale loudly as they clatter passed. The farmer smiles and waves politely and I poke my head out of the window to watch them head down the lane, awed.
I pop open my bottle of root beer before I put the car back in gear. It’s in a glass bottle with a lid that twists off with a slight pop and a hiss. The root beer is not as sweet as the kind in the store, and it has an earthy taste of real sarsaparilla and a hint of cow manure. It makes my tongue a little bit numb. I take another swig anyway and head down the road. Straight road. Fields. Sharp bend. Farm. Cows.
I have seen wondrous things on this road trip. Breathtaking horses that could be pulling the chariots of Greek gods. Simple clothes hanging on the line, black pants and grey dresses, mixed with shirts and blouses in technicolor purple, blue and pink. Teams of donkeys pulling iron plows through vast fields. A horse and buggy tied up beside the gas station convenience store. A black and white cow derriere hanging out of the barn door. Long, flat tobacco leaves hanging to dry at the sunny end of a barn. A one-room schoolhouse during recess with kids of all ages playing baseball in the yard. Another schoolhouse at the edge of a field with class in session, the fence lined with candy colored bikes and scooters. Fields of yellow, green and blue punctuated by silver silos, rolling for miles towards the Susquehanna River.
To top off my trip, I pick up traditional Pennsylvania Dutch food at one of the many family restaurants and smorgasboards. A sampler. Fried chicken, meatloaf, brown buttered noodles, pork and sauerkraut, chow chow (a pickled mix of vegetables). Shoofly pie. (Check out these great recipes.) I take a final quaff of root beer, wave as I pass another farmer with his team of horses in the field, and head home.
